A Christmas Kiss
by junejuly15
Summary: A Christmas Kiss is a present from me to you. An Advent calendar containing a fluffy Johnlock fic in 24 parts. Every day, starting today with the first of December, you will get a part, some longer and some shorter, thus slowly unwrapping the story, and on Christmas Eve you'll have Sherlock and John ... well ... let's not spoil the surprise
1. 1

_**A Christmas Kiss**_ is a present from me to you. An **Advent calendar** containing a fluffy Johnlock fic in **24 parts**.

Every day, starting today with the first of December, you will get a part, thus slowly unwrapping the story, and on Christmas Eve you'll have Sherlock and John ... well ... let's not spoil the surprise ... Enjoy reading!

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**A Christmas Kiss**

****1/24****

'Bored!'

A sigh, coming from deep down his restless soul escaped Sherlock. A mighty, yet somewhat disappointed and utterly bleak sigh. His whole body, slumped in his usual chair, exuded an almost paradoxical bored tension. Like a bowstring, overly taut and ready, a split second before it snaps.

He sighed again and let his eyes slowly crawl over the dull emptiness of the flat, completely still and devoid of any of the usual bustling activity as neither Mrs Hudson nor John were here with him.

_How dare they? How could they have left me! Alone! _

How could John have just gone to work, knowing full well that no interesting case was on the agenda, no old case notes were waiting to be examined and corrected and definitely, definitely no experiment was ready to be carried out.

No, Mrs Hudson herself had made sure of that this morning.

_I'm not your housekeeper, dear_ - she had said, the words seemingly friendly, but in obvious contrast to her steely tone of voice - _But this is testing my patience as your landlady - once again, I might add - and I am going to clear out that fridge now!_

Of course, she had been as good as her word and now all of Sherlock's promising mould samples, all the specimens he had kept in neatly labelled transparent jars in the fridge, the plastic bag full of fingers, including a very fine specimen of a left thumb, had gone the way of all things perishable and found a way into Mrs Hudson's bins.

_Maybe I could?_ - A shudder went over Sherlock's pyjama-clad frame - _No!_

He sighed again - 'BORED!'

Suddenly a snippet of a memory assaulted him out of nowhere, sending shivers down his spine and leaving his skin tingly all over. He sat up.

_Yes! Excellent idea!_

That might very well occupy him for a while. With newfound energy Sherlock got up from his favourite chair and made his way up to John's room.

_**To be continued tomorrow ...**_


	2. 2

****2/24****

John's day at the surgery had been pleasantly uneventful, calming, a rather welcome change to last week when he had chased a notorious blackmailer around London with Sherlock.

He felt rested and had even enjoyed the usually so dreadful journey on the tube, and now, almost home, he was happily humming under his breath, nothing too fanciful, just a melody appropriate for a man who is content with a calm working day well done.

Hurrying along the passageways of Baker Street underground station he fished his mobile out of his coat pocket and checked for messages. What he found or rather not found, made him frown.

The mobile's display cheekily announced _No new messages_, of course explaining to some extent why the day had been so calm, so uneventful. There were no new reports from Harry trying to get her act together for the umpteenth time, there was nothing from Mrs Hudson who had recently mastered the art of texting and usually put it to good use, and, most astonishingly, there was no message from Sherlock.

Not a single one!

The pleasant little melody whithered and died on John's lips and he stopped in his tracks. A rather stout young man who had not paid attention to anything going on around him, bumped against John - 'Oi!' he huffed, annoyed to be forced to look up from his mobile, but then he continued his way without another word.

'Sorry,' John immediately mumbled while taking a step to the side, obviously not meaning it, but automatically going through the polite motions deeply engrained into his British soul. A frown knitted his brows, darkening his expression and he absentmindedly chewed his lower lip. _No_ messages? Nothing at all from Sherlock? What was that supposed to mean?

John glanced around him, taking in the somewhat dimmed, but slightly aggressive activity of all the tired commuters coming back from work, and with determination he negotiated the last few yards through the throng of people and then sprinted up the stairs to leave the underground station.

Making sure not to be run over by one of the many delivery vans using Baker Street as a shortcut, he dashed across the road, quickening his pace. A feeling akin to worry was spurning him on because a silent Sherlock was disturbing, to say the least, although John probably would not have admitted as much to himself - and definitely not to Sherlock, come to think of it.

Approaching 221B he quickly glanced up to their living room window and took the faint light shining through the curtains as a good sign. At least Sherlock seemed to be at home and was not blustering through London alone, upsetting detective inspectors and narrowly escaped victims alike while doing so.

John was almost there, right in front of 221B in fact, when a sudden, but frighteningly familiar noise startled him. So familar that he immediately intensified the fumbling for his keys in his _bloody_ coat pockets - _they must be somewhere, those bloody buggers_ - Softly cursing under his breath he opened the front door when the noise, much louder this time, shot through the darkness of the hall once again.

_**To be continued tomorrow ...**_


	3. 3

****3/24****

John hastened up the stairs. Another shot made him crouch down instinctively. He was aware that it was more the memories triggered by that particular sound than the actual noise itself which had sent him into that often trained position.

He decided to use the silence in between the shots to storm up the last few steps.

'What the hell!'

Another shot was fired.

Amazed, John saw that Sherlock was almost dancing with the gun, a perverted, yet fascinating sight. Sherlock turned to shoot yet again and before he fired he pressed out between clenched lips, 'Bored!'

'What the _bloody_ hell!'

In two quick steps John had crossed the living room and wrenched the gun - his gun! - from Sherlock's hand. Securing it, he hurried out onto the landing, placing the gun well out of reach of this madman. He literally saw red when he returned.

'Are you completely out of your mind?'

Sherlock sashayed over to his chair, outwardly unaffected by John's rage.

'Bored!' he drawled, once again, and sprawled all over his favourite battered leather chair, his arms hanging over the armrests and his bare feet crossed at the ankles.

John's tongue darted out, like a lizard's, wetting his lips. The living room was a mess, of course. That in itself was nothing out of the ordinary and nothing to get irritated by, but the wall above the sofa really had taken the brunt of Sherlock's boredom this time.

At some point during the day, Sherlock must have sprayed a yellow smiley onto the wallpaper and right now he had been peppering it with gunshots, retracing the beatific smile with something more dangerous and deadlier than paint.

'What happened, Sherlock?'

Despite the urge to scream and to rant, John decided to try patience first. He knew from experience that it usually worked wonders with his patients, even with the more stubborn ones. Crossing his arms in front of his chest he looked down on Sherlock who was apparently unaffected by John's rage and by the fact that he had been firing a gun in their living room. He gave the overall impression of someone who could not care less.

'I hate to repeat myself, John. You heard me.'

'Yes, I did. You said you were bored,' John stepped from one foot onto the other, his saintlike patience already wearing thin in the face of this sulking heap of gangly limbs.

'So?'

'So I decided to do something about it.'

'By shooting the wall?'

'Clearly. Even you must admit that it's no worse than it was before.'

'I'm not sure Mrs Hudson is going to agree.'

'Ah, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock shrugged and waved away any doubt with a light flick of his wrist.

'Your tactics of dealing with boredom are quickly deteriorating, Sherlock, and if we - _you_ - are going at this rate we'll be out on the street by New Year's Eve. I'm not so sure that Mrs Hudson is willing to put up with any of this for much longer. Not after what happened this morning anyway.'

'Don't be such a fusspot, John. I'm sure it'll be fine.' Another wave of that delicate wrist caused the heat to rise in John and he had to turn away to hide his face. Not quickly enough, though.

'Come on , John. What is the matter with you? Since when do you care about such trivialities? It's just a bit of old wallpaper after all!'

'I _do_ care because I would very much resent to be forced to leave this flat, for fuck's sake!' John exploded. He stabbed an angry finger in Sherlock's direction, 'You better find another outlet for your frustration. I am not putting up with you and this frankly childish beaviour for very much longer!'

John turned on his heels and stormed out of the living room, leaving a befuddled Sherlock behind. Slowly a frown crept across his relaxed features and he sat up.

'Another outlet? What on earth is that supposed to mean?'

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	4. 4

****4/24****

John was fuming. This bloody madman of a flatmate would really get them evicted one day. It was inconceivable why Mrs Hudson would want to put up with any of this kerfuffle for much longer.

There was the violin practice in the middle of the night, going on for hours sometimes, the shouting, the endless pacing, the distasteful experiments, and let's not forget the specimens in the fridge ... and now _this_!

Soon she would present them with a little handwritten note, maybe accompanied by a polite, but final cup of tea, motherly and warmhearted as she was, and that would be it! No more Baker Street, no more 221B and all just because this insufferable git could not find a decent way to channel his frustration, his boredom, his tension.

_Jesus_!

Why could he not for once be _normal_ and take up ... cooking for example! Or why not pour all this bubbling energy into mastering the art of baking? Cutting out cookies or decorating an intricate cake was supposed to have healing powers. John was sure he had read an article claiming it did wonders for calming delicate nerves, and - as a nice side effect - it resulted in something edible!

The mental image of Sherlock pottering about the kitchen, covered in flour and brandishing a knife or a heart-shaped cookie cutter made John shudder, though.

Maybe he could find some kind of sport to burn up his unused energy. Why not beat up some hapless punchbag, or run himself into exhausion on a track.

Wait! - Hadn't Sherlock mentioned once that he had been a member of the fencing team at uni?

However, after Sherlock's careless and frankly frightening use of John's gun, he would rather see him engage in a variety of sport not requiring the regular use of any weapon.

Just the thought of Sherlock's obnoxious disregard for safety, and let's not forget privacy and overall _normal_ behaviour, rekindled John's anger and involuntarily his grip around the gun tightened and the all so familiar heat built in his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment to calm down, and surprisingly the memory of the ridiculous and grinning smiley on the wall was helpful to dampen this furious spark. John exhaled noisily and even managed a little smile.

'You're such an impossible idiot,' he mumbled and stowed away the gun in the locker in his wardrobe. Not that this precaution would keep Sherlock from taking it out again, but at least he would have to overcome the obstacle of this lock. Might make him think for a second or two.

All of this did nothing to solve the problem, though, did not touch the heart of the matter:

Sherlock's endless restlessness, this almost boundless amount of pent up energy and the frustration going with it, needed to be released. And John was more than aware of that.

He pocketed the lock's key and frowned. That Sherlock had chosen this particular means - firing a gun - was very interesting, though. As a soldier, he knew precisely what myths surrounded firing a gun and he smirked when he thought back to all the raunchy jokes shared among his fellow soldiers in the all-men surroundings of the camp in Afghanistan.

Maybe there was a solution to be found, not in the shooting of course, that was out of the question and should definitely not happen again, at least not in their flat, but the _other_ side of this particular medal ... John felt a blush creeping up his face and neck and dropped his gaze to hide the smirk spreading over his flushed face. He turned around, still smirking and gasped in shock.

Sherlock was standing right in front of him, a puzzled expression flickering over his otherwise pale and composed features.

_Like a cat_ - John thought, rather helplessly, the smirk dying on his face - _He creeped up on me like a bloody cat!_

Sherlock could read the different emotions on John's face, the fading smirk quickly followed by a rather flustered annoyance, but as so often he chose to ignore them.

'What do you mean?'

'What are you talking about, Sherlock?' John asked back, more tired than anything else all of a sudden, tired of questions, tired of games, too tired to even guess.

'What _other_ outlet?'

_**To be continued tomorrow ...**_


	5. 5

****5/24****

'Not now, Sherlock.'

John brushed past his friend and left the room. He was almost fleeing the sanctuary of his own bedroom, but he knew from experience that he needed to put a distance between himself and Sherlock should he stand a cat's chance in hell to escape his close scrutiny.

John needed this distance as he was more than a tad unsettled, and he felt caught, as if Sherlock had walked in on something indecent. And he had, hadn't he? With Sherock's infallible deduction skills it would take mere seconds to deduce John's train of thought. John winced in embarrassment and quickened his steps, no, it was impossible to face him now.

Putting some distance between them, preferably being in another room, might mean Sherlock would not notice and maybe forget. And if John was really lucky this could even be the start of a much desired quiet evening.

A sigh accompanied his steps down the stairs. At least one could always hope.

John entered the kitchen, noticing that his stomach was growling, demanding loudly to be attended to, and he planned on doing just that. He assumed that the fridge was almost devoid of groceries and a quick recce confirmed his fear. In fact, the fridge was obscenely empty, now that Mrs Hudson had cleared out all of Sherlock's stuff - and the few things John had bought two days ago. On the bright side it seemed fairly clean for once.

John closed the door and turned around. Leaning against the fridge, he considered his options - take-away or improvising - and pointedly ignored Sherlock slinking down the stairs a few moments later, as much as he decidedly overlooked him leaning against the kitchen table where he knew he would be in the way.

On the spur of the moment John decided to improvise and continued searching the kitchen for something edible. Obviously, Sherlock was in the way and so John stepped over his outstretched legs and cleared the table around him, reaching past his lanky frame, left and right, pretending not to notice the quizzically raised eyebrows.

_Yes! Pasta with_ ...

Pasta was a household staple, even in their household, and when John checked the kitchen cupboards he found an almost complete packet of spaghetti which he triumphantly placed next to the cooker. And after some more rummaging around he found a tin of cooked tomatoes not yet past the expiry date.

_So, pasta with tomato sauce it would be_.

From the little vegetable basket next to the fridge he fetched an onion, red hot pepper and garlic, and set out to prepare his speciality, a simple, but spicy tomato sauce. A sauce he knew Sherlock could be tempted into eating once in a while, so maybe he could kill two birds with one stone with this supper. Even it it meant facing the _bloody_ scrutinizing gaze over the dinner table.

Sherlock's silent presence still filled the kitchen and mildly upset John, but the ordinary domestic chores had a calming influence and John's tiredness and irritation slowly seeped away, making room for a more content feeling. He started humming under his breath again while he was waiting for the water to boil and the fragrant aroma of onions and garlic, frying in olive oil, was beginning to fill the kitchen.

'What other outlet?' Sherlock asked again, as if the past silent and awkward fifteen minutes had not happened.

John felt slightly better prepared to deal with this request now and turned around.

_**To be continued tomorrow ...**_

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**A/N I want to thank you fo****r all the response this fic has been getting so far. You really made my day :)**_**  
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	6. 6

****6/24****

'I don't know, Sherlock,' he shrugged. 'Maybe you could help me with the cooking.'

Sherlock snorted mirthlessly and John saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face. His skin prickled at the sight of this, but he did not know why. Sherlock noticed his unease, but instead of commenting he just held his gaze.

'Or you could take up a sport which might help you channel your unspent energy ...'

An angry click of the tongue and one of his exasperated eyerolls told John precisely what Sherlock thought of that suggestion, and he felt his spirits revive. _Angry_ and _petulant_ he could deal with, _disappointed_ not so much.

'Yes, Sherlock. Why don't you compete with other high-flyers, beat the living daylight out of a punchbag, show others who's best, that sort of thing.'

A sarcastic, rather ugly note had crept into John's voice and he was brandishing the wooden spoon, waving it about like an angry housewife berating her husband. Again he believed to see a flicker of disappointment on his friend's face.

Sherlock did not say a word, only sighed and pushed himself off the table. He fixed his gaze on John for a second before he turned and walked out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder he called back, 'I would have expected something a bit more original from you, John.' He was almost through the door of his bedroom when he added. 'And by the way, I'm not hungry. Good night.'

With a curse John chucked the wooden spoon into the frying pan, sending some of the onions flying. Well, this evening really had gone from bad to worse.

With an expression bordering on disgust he eyed the sizzling onions in the pan, their pungent smell almost too much to bear now. With a sigh he turned off the heat and sat down at the table.

_**To be continued tomorrow ...**_

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**A/N Sorry, this is such a short chapter, but please look on the bright side: you don't have to wait too long for an update :****)**_**  
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	7. 7

****7/24****

Sherlock closed his bedroom with a bit more force than was strictly necessary and flopped down onto his bed. Just a moment of deceptive stillness, though and then he rolled onto his belly, burying his face in the pillows.

'Arrghhh' he growled, frustration tinting his usual so confident timbre with a dab of helpless annoyance.

_What a useless, senseless waste of a blasted day!_

Nothing had come up after the blackmailer's case and he had known, even this morning, that he quickly would have to find something to occupy his mind or else ... But everybody and everything had conspired against him!

First, Mrs Hudson had cleared out the fridge, then she had left in a huff. Second, John had followed and left for his boring work, ignoring his ever so obvious distress, ignoring that he needed him, being totally and utterly oblivious to his needs. Third, all the texts he had sent Lestrade over the course of the morning had gone unanswered.

_NOT. A. SINGLE. DISTRACTION!_

Until he had had the brilliant idea with the smiley, of course. A brilliant idea that had resulted in a short distraction, followed by this very strange and annoying evening.

With an angry grunt Sherlock rolled back onto his back and stared at the ceiling. But soon he grew restless again and so he turned to the side and switched the bedside lamp on. With the simple flick of a switch the world was brighter, in a literal sense, but his mood was still as dark as the cold December night outside.

Why had John been so upset by this triviality? Why had he been upset at all and _what_ for God's sakes had he been talking about?

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and pressed the palms of his hands against his temples.

When he had nothing to do, his mind rotted away, his body protested, John knew that, did he not? And today had been the worst for a long time, as this damned restlessness had been eating away at him, like a living thing, paving the ground for a nagging sense of waste, of being superfluous, of having no anchor in such bleakness. Sherlock groaned again, trying to chase away this realisation, as it was a crushing one, and a very ugly feeling, which permeated his being and weighed him down.

Sherlock pressed his hands against his eyes and moments later opened them with a snarl.

_John! _

Now, John had really been no help. Not this morning and not now. In fact, he had been as obtuse as he had been oblivious. And this damnable, damnable 'outlet business'!

It added to his sense of failure and it bugged Sherlock more than he would openly admit that he did not have the faintest idea what he had been getting at!

The soft clanking of glass against plate, of cutlery against sink could be heard outside and he let his hands sink to his lap. He imagined John washing the dishes, drying them, then putting them away, generally being _himself_ by bringing _order_ to their kitchen.

He was so simple, was John. So ... _here_, so grounded. Order, principles, a cup of tea or a pint and a good meal, and John was happy.

Sherlock was not sure if he pitied or envied John.

Good, fascinating, irritating - missed John.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	8. 8

****8/24****

It was past nine when John finally sat down in his favourite chair in the living room, nursing a cuppa, winding down. He stretched his legs, rotated his shoulders a bit and sighed contently. As much as the tea he was enjoying the silence that was slowly settling over him and their flat, covering him benignly, like one of those warm blankets his mother used to have at home, the soft woollen ones.

Involuntarily John glanced over his shoulder towards Sherlock's firmly closed bedroom door. He had not come out of his room again, and John did not expect him to make an appearance any time soon. A mighty sulk of the great Consulting Detective could last a moment or two, and quite obviously this was one of the greater ones.

John took a sip of his milky Assam, relishing the bittersweet taste and settled deeper into his chair. When his glance fell on the smiley on the opposite wall he chuckled. His gaze lingered, ten, twenty seconds and he pursed his lips, musing, imagining Sherlock as he was standing on the cushions of their sofa, barefoot and stretching his long and pale arms to spray this little monster onto the wall. In garish yellow of all colours. The evidence, the spray can, was still on the coffee table, looking innocent and inconspicuous in its mundane container.

Soon John's thought travelled back to Sherlock standing on the sofa. Maybe he had been struggling a bit to keep his balance on the slippery cushions. Maybe his shabby t-shirt had ridden up an inch or two, revealing a glimpse of creamy skin or a bony hip, maybe he had stretched his arms so that the skin was taut and the underlying muscles visible ...

John huffed and lightly shook his head. Nervously he cleared his throat and placed his mug on the mantlepiece.

Determined now to steer his thoughts into another, safer direction, he picked up the novel which had been waiting to be read for the whole of last week. A novel which took him to Edinburgh, to Fleshmarket Close, to be precise. Well, maybe he could indeed lose himself in the world of this grumpy Scottish Detective Inspector Rebus who was trying to solve the cimes befalling the Windy City. John smiled, he could not help but see a glimpse of Greg Lestrade in this fictional character, an older, grubbier version of him, more complicated and less friendly.

The letters on the pages seemed to blur after a few minutes, the black melting into a greyish puddle and John squinted, trying to coax his tired eyes into focusing on the letters, the writing. But despite his tiredness reading was a welcome distraction, as it was taking him away from this flat for a moment and John was glad for that.

Anything offering a bit of distraction was good really.

Anything to take his mind of a certain mad London based Consulting Detective, who seemed to be taking up more and more of his thoughts lately.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	9. 9

****9/24****

'John.'

'John, wake up!'

John blinked his eyes open and tried to sit up. His mouth was dry and he felt a rather unbecoming imprint of the Union Jack cushion burning on his cheek. He cleared his throat and ruffled his hand through his hair, smoothing it down, trying to restore some order.

Sherlock noticed, but he let it slip. He granted John a moment or two before he spoke again.

'John, Lestrade texted fifteen minutes ago. We are being summoned to Wandsworth. We need to go!'

'What's the time?' John mumbled, quickly wiping his hands over his tired face. He stretched his arms and moved his back, trying to relax his tense muscles. His back hurt like hell from sleeping in the chair.

'It's half four. Hurry up, John! Lestrade made this murder sound quite promising!'

With a wink Sherlock turned and was out of the living room in one fluid and elegant motion. John was fully awake now and it was debatable if it had been the word _murder, _the fact that Sherlock had actually winked at him or his glowing and animated face which had woken his senses so completely.

Hastily John stumbled to his feet, grabbing his shoes and coat on the way out. He paused long enough on the landing to slip into both shoes and his black coat before he followed Sherlock and his billowing great coat down the stairs.

Sherlock Holmes, alert and happy and glowing, and giving the impression of an excited and rather magnificent bird strutting about and ruffling its shiny coal black feathers.

John joined him outside 221B and together they climbed into the black cab already waiting for them, companiable and in silence as if this evening, their argument and the smiley on the wall with its toothy grin had never happened.

What DI Lestrade had called them to in Wandsworth turned out to be a rather straightforward case, a domestic, a husband killed in cold blood by a long-suffering wife. It took Sherlock mere minutes to deduce this by just observing the crime scene. Not a problematic or overly complicated case, but interesting enough to occupy Sherlock's mind for a while and substantial enough to give him a sense of achievement. In short, something to brighten his bleak mood considerably.

Sherlock hung around the crime scene as long as possible, unable to tear himself away so soon after these blasted hours of boredom and restlessness. But after he had delivered his deductions, had berated Anderson for his sloppy handling of some of the evidence, had seen all there had been to see, there was no reason to delay his departure from the crime scene any longer.

Still quite content with himself, Sherlock left the rather shabby semi to join John and Lestrade who had been standing outside the house for the past twenty minutes, sharing a quiet and friendly talk.

However, when they saw Sherlock coming over, they both fell silent as if on cue and watched him approaching. Sherlock frowned and stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Why would they stop talking when they saw him and what was this smug smile doing on Lestrade's face?

Time to find out, Sherlock thought and hurried to join them. Judging by the idiotic grin on the DI's face it would probably take half a minute to get to the heart of the matter.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	10. 10

****10/24****

'Did you really shoot a smiley into poor Mrs Hudson's living room wall, Sherlock?'

Lestrade chuckled, rocking on his heels, feigning incomprehension and quite obviously enjoying himself immensely. To make his impression of fake amazement complete he even raised his hands in a gesture indicating his lack of understanding.

Sherlock, disappointed that Lestrade was robbing him of a chance to deduce, shot him an ill-humoured glance before he turned to John, but his friend only shrugged and smiled.

'Clearly,' Sherlock simply conceded, turning back to Lestrade.

'You know what they say, Sherlock?'

Lestrade was enjoying this, Sherlock could tell. Oh, this was getting more tedious by the second.

'About what?'

'About shooting, about firing a gun?'

Lestrade was grinning like a Cheshire Cat now and Sherlock felt a light prickling of his skin like a cat raising its hackles when irritated or cornered. He narrowed his eyes at the DI who, as usual, was unable to hide his emotions. Lestrade was as easy to read as an open book, even to John, who had acquired a neat level of people-reading-skills over the last months. Right now there was glee on his face, pleasure and the will to divulge a secret.

'I have to say that I don't _quite_ know what you're getting at, Detective Inspector Lestrade,' Sherlock admitted sourly, deliberately using the full title.

Sherlock's face had hardened into a cold mask, and the fake smile lifting the corners of his mouth did nothing to soften his features. Lestrade must be talking about superfluous and therefore deleted data, Sherlock thought and clasped his hands behind his back. This must be it, surely. Should it ever have been among the things he had known, that was.

'Well, I'm certain you don't mind me enlightening you, then.'

The smirk deepened and suddenly John, who had followed the exchange in silence and with pleasure so far, saw with astounding clarity what it was Greg wanted to tell Sherlock and that it would probably be wiser not to do so.

'Greg, I really think you should reconsider ...' he started, but Lestrade was not to be stopped.

'You know, Sherlock. Shooting is a way of getting rid of tension, an outlet of some kind.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, urging him to get on with it.

'And apparently there are studies which prove that firing a gun causes the same chemical reactions in the brain as a passionate kiss!'

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	11. 11

****11/24****

Sherlock only arched his brows before he turned around without a word and started walking down the little side street into the direction of the main road. John huffed and shook his head, aiming a rather exasperated smile at Lestrade.

'Greg, did you really have to tell him that? Was that really necessary?'

'I don't see why not, John! No harm done, eh?' He winked at John and turned around to tell the PC hovering near him, 'That's it for tonight, tell the team to pack up. Office nine am sharp!'

Lestrade smiled at his friend and disappeared into the direction of his unmarked police car, leaving John no choice but to follow Sherlock who was waiting for him at the corner of the main road.

* * *

On the ride back home Sherlock was very quiet and withdrawn into himself. A thinking, no, a brooding entity sitting next to John in the cab. The adrenalin high which usually accompanied a solved case had quite obviously worn off already, and the darker mood of this evening seemed to have returned. It was as if Lestrade's flippant remark had switched off the contentment and pride that Sherlock had exuded after solving the case, and left him with nothing but a silently bubbling mind.

Still, John accepted this change of mood, of course he did, and he settled into the corner of the cab, unconsciously moving as far away from Sherlock as possible. The better to study him, not to create a barrier. It was interesting to see those thoughts whizzing and whirling behind his eyes, intriguing to see the twitching fingers in their black leather gloves, the nervous jiggling up and down of his left knee, the one closer to John.

Not in his mind palace, then, John thought. Good. Not completely absorbed in filing away the case or in deleting superfluous data.

Those occasions were always characterised by utter and complete stillness, at least in the initial stages, the ones John witnessed before dozing off more often than not, lulled into sleep by the peaceful aura of a friend deeply sunken into the depths of his own brilliant mind.

And what a truly brilliant mind that was!

And what a truly complicated and outstanding man it made Sherlock. Outstanding in the truest sense of the word, as nobody could deny that he was an outsider, set apart by his cleverness and acerbity, by his snarky comments and dry humour.

But how utterly beguiling and fascinating he was in all his ferocious ambiguity and splendor!

John felt a surge of affection and fought the impulse to reach out and place a soothing hand on that nervously moving knee or to intertwine his steady fingers with Sherlock's twitching leather-clad digits. Instead he cleared his throat and looked outside, at the night wooshing past. At a night which was a morning really, as the darkness was rapidly giving way to dawn. Only those unfortunate enough having to hasten to work this early or those out on a long Friday night of clubbing were out and about on the streets. John checked his watch, and was astounded to find that it was past seven already. The night had come and gone without him properly noticing.

The ride home continued in silence and soon they reached Baker Street. Without paying much attention to the dawning day Sherlock dashed out of the cab and into their home as soon as it stopped, leaving it to John to pay the driver.

Instead of following Sherlock immediately, John decided to walk down Baker Street to the little French bakery and get some decent breakfast first. He was yearning for a bit of cosy quiet that a decent breakfast would certainly provide and maybe he was lucky this morning and could even tempt Sherlock into eating one of those delicious croissanty things.

With an almost angry growl his stomach reminded him that he himself had not eaten for more than eighteen hours either. With a confident spring in his step John set out to remedy that.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	12. 12

****12/24****

'Breakfast!' John called and dropped a paper bag full of delicious fresh croissants and cinnamon rolls onto the fairly uncluttered desk in their living room.

'Not hungry!' came the quick, but not unfriendly reply from the vicinity of their bathroom, followed by the firm closing of the door and the telltale noises of a shower being turned on.

John just smirked and decided to leave his own morning ablutions until after breakfast. Despite Lestrade's inappropriate remark which had virtually killed the mood for a while, he was inexplicably content after this night's case and the strangely peaceful ride home, a feeling of warmth spreading in his chest. Sherlock seeemed to have come out of his partial muteness and was more himself if his prompt answer and the running water were anything to go by.

John started humming under his breath when he shrugged out of his coat and felt confident enough to lay the table for two. Two plates, cups and saucers, two knives, butter, marmalade, sugar and milk. And a particularly nice blue plate laden with the fresh buttery croissants and the fragrant cinnamon rolls.

Well, hope is the last thing to die, or so they say, he thought, while adding a dash of colour to their table with some Christmassy paper napkins he had just bought in the little corner shop. He even thought about lighting a candle for a moment, but then decided against it as it could be misconstrued by a certain flatmate, and a dissection of his ulterior motifs would certainly destroy any happy mood John was in.

He hesitated a moment, checking the table, checking his mood - Yes, he was ... content.

Maybe it had been the case and the ride home with a Sherlock who had been very brooding - and very appealing. Maybe it had been the cheery red-cheeked sales assistant in the bakery with her cosy accent, maybe it had been the Christmas carols playing softly in the corner shop, maybe it had been the frosty air, biting and crisp, which had lightened his mood considerably or maybe it had been the large bunch of mistletoe he had bought on impulse from a street vendor just setting up his stall.

Every Saturday and Sunday morning during December all kinds of street vendors set up their colourful stalls near the row of shops down Baker Street. It was a miniature Christmas market and they usually made a brisk trade. Even more so today as it was the last weekend before Christmas, and John was unaccountably happy that he had managed to buy a wonderful bunch of mistletoe. He glanced towards the kitchen where it lingered in the sink, waiting to adorn their flat soon.

A broad smile lightened up John's features when the realisation fully hit him that there was no rush today. It was Saturday, early morning, and a glorious free weekend was stretching ahead of them. John rubbed his hands together and went to fetch the tea to complement this very appealing breakfast table.

Everything done John sat down with the morning paper, waiting for Sherlock to finish his shower. The desire to have him sit down opposite him was strong now, as it would make this content and normal morning complete. Maybe they could talk, maybe they could go through the case again, maybe they could make some plans for today.

John smiled and filled his cup with steaming tea, adding a generous splash of milk. The tea in one hand and the paper in the other, he scanned this morning's front page, Lestrade's remark about guns and kissing almost forgotten.

An article about the refurbishment of an old abandoned theatre caught his eye and he completely missed Sherlock leaving the bathroom, only to notice him when he was standing right beside him.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	13. 13

****13/24****

'_Jesus_! Sherlock. Why do you always have to creep up on me like that!'

Startled John spat out those words accompanied by some of his tea and set his mug back on the table. Cursing he reached for one of the brightly coloured napkins to mop up the tea that had sloshed over the rim of the cup, onto the morning paper, his trousers and the wooden floor.

'I do no such thing!' Sherlock protested, undiscerning as always and standing very close. 'Clearly it is not my fault if an article about an old burlesque theatre hall and the, however slim, possibilty of it taking up business again captures your wits entirely, making you oblivious to everything else going on around you!'

John placed the sodden napkin as far away from his breakfast plate as possible and shot Sherlock an annoyed look which, of course, went entirely unnoticed. Sherlock leaned over John and eyed the breakfast table and all it contained suspiciously.

'What's so special about today?' he inquired.

'Nothing, why do you ask?'

'Well, there's croissants and cinnamon rolls, usually reserved for one of your _love_ interests - No, I have to correct myself, you occasionally walk down Baker Street to the little French Bakery to get croissants for us as well, but I'm very certain that the cinnamon rolls are reserved for those among your _dates_ you hope to meet more than once.'

There was disdain apparent in Sherlock's voice and John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to contradict, but Sherlock ploughed on without paying him attention.

'Then there's also colourful seasonal napkins, bought especially at Mr Singh's. You even considered lighting a candle if the half-open matchbox on the table is anything to go by ... _and_ you are hoping I will have breakfast with you!'

His deductions finished, Sherlock smugly smiled and turned away, neither waiting for nor expecting an answer. John huffed and shook his head. He felt the emptiness next to him where just a second ago Sherlock's overwhelming presence had been. He also felt this unwanted heat rising in his chest again, felt the irritation that had been sleeping, covered by this cosy morning's peace, uncoil and rear its ugly head. He dipped his chin and waited for this feeling to pass.

'Maybe later,' Sherlock softly added after a moment when the silence grew uncomfortable and began to linger. He placed a warm hand on John's shoulder, the touch so brief and so featherlight that John wondered whether he had not been imagining it. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sherlock picking up his violin from its casing.

Lovingly Sherlock stroked over the shining wooden body of his instrument before he began to play.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	14. 14

****14/24****

It was good, listening to the simple tunes Sherlock started out with. John realised that he was improvising, going wherever the mood would take him, using a motif and its variations here and gliding to a well-known melody there. He even played the odd Carol, albeit with a twist, an ironic nod to the Christmassy mood John and the rest of the world were in.

Despite the usual Sherlockian comments about breakfast and John's - non-existing love life - John was still in the mood for harmony and softness, and he was not fighting the melodies to swirl through the air and envelop them both, holding them here together in their own little world. The music made him relax and he began to feel warm and content again.

John dipped his chin and smiled, he could not help wondering what exactly it was that made him so soft just now, mere moments after he would have happily kicked one of Sherlock's pale shins for being, well, for being _himself_ - but, yes, soft was the word. Sherlock must have picked up on John's mood and playing for him the way he was, was his way of acknowledging him and maybe even an apology of sorts.

'Thank you,' John softly said. If Sherlock had heard he gave no sign and just continued playing. John poured himself another cup of tea and settled happily into the routine of a lazy breakfast.

After maybe half an hour Sherlock suddenly stopped playing and, putting the violin aside, he asked.

'John, you know both. Can you explain it to me, please?'

As used as John was to Sherlock's mental leaps he had trouble following his train of thought just now.

'Both?'

'Yes, you know. What Lestrade was referring to.' Sherlock turned around and stood next to John again, close, very close. Quite naturally inhabiting the space he had vacated half an hour ago.

'Ah, yes. I see - _both_.'

'Is it true? Does it feel the same? Firing a gun and kissing?'

'That's not what he said. He said it triggers the same chemical reactions. He was not saying it felt the same.'

'Does it not?'

'It depends.' John was trying to buy time and carefully put his cup back into its saucer before laboriously folding the paper. Inwardly he sent a colourful curse to his friend Greg for planting that thought in Sherlock's brain. 'You know, Sherlock, that I never liked shooting just for the sake of it, it's never been a hobby. I never liked using a weapon in earnest, in combat, or the few times when I had to get you out of trouble. But I agree that there's an element of excitement about shooting ...' John paused and glanced up at his friend, 'As you yourself might know.' Another pause before he added, 'Kissing is something else entirely, though.'

'Tell me,' Sherlock sounded matter-of-fact, clinically interested in the mechanics of kissing just as he was interested in 246 different types of tobacco ash or bread mould. Eagerly he sat down opposite John and steepled his fingers underneath his chin. His bright, clear eyes focused on John, and on John only.

John smiled and wetted his lips. Just a moment ago he might have cursed Lestrade for blurting out this _bloody_ fact, but he could not deny a feeling of tension, of apprehension when looking at Sherlock now. And he could not deny that it felt good.

Sherlock's bright eyes were fixed on John, watching, observing, no doubt reading all the emotions flickering over his face. He nodded to urge him on.

John slowly breathed in and out once. It was disconcerting to be the centre of attention of Sherlock Holmes at the best of times, and even more so when John thought about what he was expected to explain.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_

* * *

**A/N Thank you all so much for your continuing support ... I promise your patience will be rewarded soon :)**

**JJ**


	15. 15

****15/24****

'It's different every time. It depends on who you are kissing, when and where and why. The mood you're in, the time of day, the weather, the place.'

John realised he was waffling and cleared his throat. His gaze dropped to his lap, to his hands nervously fiddling with the folded paper. He placed it on the table.

'Right - Some kisses are plain, but sweet and tender. A welcome kiss on the cheek between an old married couple for example or a quick kiss on the lips when you say thank you to your partner.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow, 'I fail to see the connection to firing a gun.'

'Hang on, I only got started.'

John shifted in his seat, trying to get more comfortable, and trying to hide the sense of excitement that was beginning to take hold of him.

'Then there's kisses that speak of understanding, of knowing each other. Warm and familiar, fuelled by knowing somebody initimately, and they are a testament of the perfect and at the same time so simple fact that you want to be near this person, as close as possible, at all times. Forming a unit with body and soul...'

'By pressing your lips onto somebody else's lips?'

Sherlock sounded genuinely interested and sat forward a bit.

'Yes, it's the most intimate thing you can share with another person.'

Sherlock nodded, and John felt encouraged to go on.

'And then there are the heated, the passionate kisses. A purely physical thing sometimes, but mostly they are much, much more. Stolen kisses maybe, secret, for nobody to see. Or they are the climax of a slow dance that has been going on for a while. Two people interested in each other, but unable to act on their attraction. Those kisses, when you finally share them, will rob you of your senses, they will let you float and leave you breathless. Those are the kisses that make you forget where and who you are, they are a part of so much more, a promise of a fulfillment, the prelude of consumation.'

'That's the ones Lestrade was talking about,' Sherlock stated matter-of-factly and his face lit up with a smile. His eyes became unfocused for a second before they fixed a point on the opposite wall. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers underneath his chin again. 'I see.'

John leaned forward, closing the gap Sherlock had created. 'Sherlock, how come you have to ask me that?'

'Well, as I said ...' Sherlock cleared his throat and studiously avoided eye contact. 'You experienced both. You're a soldier, you know exactly what it feels like to fire a gun, and you had your share of _the ladies_, judging by the frankly inane amount of soppy emails you sent out in the past months.'

John opened his mouth to protest, but something occured to him then.

'Do you mean you yourself have no first-hand data on that matter, Sherlock? Or are we talking about data that you deleted?'

'The latter,' Sherlock curtly answered, before he got up and swiftly left the room.

This was becoming a bad habit, Sherlock thought sourly when he closed his bedroom door firmly behind him. Me, running off like a sulking child, unable to stay.

But he could not have stayed. He was confused by what John had told him, and even more confused by the direction his own thoughts had taken, meandering around, wrapping themselves around John, John, _John_ ... almost drowning out what he had told him about the firing and the kissing and Lestrade's hypothesis he was still not entirely convinced of.

Sherlock felt restless again and started pacing the room, the space between the door and the chest of drawers, but he could not trick his mind, could not deflect it and his thoughts inevitably returned to John.

John! Who was growing more confusing by the minute. John! Whom Sherlock could not face right now as he could not trust his own feelings anymore. His own _feelings_! Sherlock realised he was behaving like a child, with those erratic moods taking hold of him and leaving him no choice but to leave and be on his own.

What _for God's sakes_ was happening to him?

_**To be continued tomorrow... **_


	16. 16

****16/24****

John was busy clearing away the remains of the breakfast. He had taken a shower first, though - it felt good to be clean and fresh - and now he was ready to face the day. His thoughts still danced around the conversation he had just had with Sherlock. His friend's behaviour had been a bit out of the ordinary this morning - and yesterday - to say the least, but then again, ths was part of his charm, wasn't it?

With regret he saw that Sherlock had been true to his word and had not eaten anything, not even a morsel. John placed one croissant and one cinnamon roll on a plate and left it on the table in their living room, hoping that maybe later he would like to have some. As if on cue he heard the door of Sherlock's bedroom open and smiled at him as he entered the kitchen. Sherlock walked towards John, but then stopped in his tracks, a frown darkening his face.

'What's that weed doing in the sink?' he asked, sounding peeved as if he could not believe that someone beside himself would actually have the nerve and clutter the kitchen.

'That's not ... it's mistletoe,' John called from the living room.

'I know exactly what that is. Viscum album, commonly known as mistletoe, weed, parasite. What's this vile parasite doing in our kitchen?'

John snorted and grabbed the teapot to take it over to the sink.

'I bought it, Sherlock.'

'You paid good money for this monstrosity? Whatever for?'

'It's almost Christmas, and it makes for a nice Christmas decoration.'

'What are you intending to do with it? Tie a pretty ribbon around it, hang it from the hall ceiling and entice Mrs Hudson into kissing you?'

_So, he does know this tradition. Data not yet deleted,_ John thought - _Interesting_

'Don't be silly, Sherlock. I wanted to hang it over the mirror with ... ' John stopped himself. 'It's not important, though, is it? I bought it, I intend to hang it up, no matter what you think of it and maybe I'll even use it to cover the ugly smiley on that wall!'

John pointed at the disfigured yellow smile, challenging Sherlock to contradict and he was not disappointed.

'Do as you please, as long as you are not trying to coerce me into a kiss, all is fine.' Sherlock said curtly, and made to study the _vile parasite _in the sink as he could not face John after what he had just said.

'Why would I want to do that,' John mumbled, putting down the teapot on the sideboard with more force than was strictly necessary, not entirely sure he wanted Sherlock to catch his reply.

'All this sentimental nonsense is mumbo jumbo nobody really needs. I'm sure you'll agree, John.' For a second Sherlock wondered why he had said that, why he had to be so snarky and he bit his lower lip.

'Of course I do, Sherlock,' John answered sarcastically, and turned to face him, a little smile lifting the corners of his mouth, but not quite reaching his eyes.

'Good!'

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	17. 17

****17/24****

To spite Sherlock, who had sashayed back to his room in yet another huff, John decided to put up the mistletoe, _right now_ and _all_ of it. He cut off a few smaller sprigs first and placed them aside. The rather splendid rest of the bunch, tied securely with a piece of golden ribbon to a nail hammered into the wall, was enough to cover the smiley. He even added a string of blinking fairy lights, and stood back smiling, admiring his handiwork.

John then proceeded to add a few more festive decorations to their living room, deliberately going over the top, the very likely snarky Sherlockian comments he most certainly would get to hear later spurning him on.

Time for the finishing touch: A bit of red ribbon found in one of the drawers was long enough to tie the smaller twigs together, and standing on one of their wooden chairs John slung the ribbon from a hook in the ceiling next to the door between kitchen and living room.

'Whohoo!' Mrs Hudson called from downstairs. 'Are you decent, boys?'

'Always, Mrs Hudson!' John called back and got down from the chair. He put the chair aside and returned to the sink to finish rinsing this morning's dishes. When Mrs Hudson entered the kitchen he placed the last cup next to the rest of the dishes to let it dry.

'Oh, how lovely, John!'

Their landlady clasped her hands in front of her chest in delight. She stepped into the living room and admired the festive decorations brightening the normally so sombre and male decor. Strings of fairy lights were adorning the mantlepiece and the window frames, the moose on the wall sported some red tinsel rakishly wrapped around its neck and the smiley glowed in the twinkle of the fairly lights.

A gasp escaped Mrs Hudson and she blinked in surprise when she realised what the mistletoe and the lights were hiding.

'What on earth is this, young man?'

A tone of genuine outrage tinted her voice and John's heart sank. This was it. He was absolutely sure this was the final straw for their landlady. The bloody eviction notice a sure thing and only a matter of minutes.

'You will have to pay for that, John. Tell Sherlock that I am not willing to put up with his ...' she waved her hand in exasperation, searching for the right words, '... his _shenanigans_ endlessly!'

'Right - I will, Mrs Hudson.'

John dried his hands and joined his landlady. They both looked at the mess on the wall in silence for a moment. Quite unexpectedly the uncomfortable silence was pierced by a girlish giggle and when John looked at her, Mrs Hudson pointed upwards. John's eyes followed her pointing finger and with a smile he asked.

'May I?'

'Oh, I insist!'

And the playful tone of voice told John that those few innocent sprigs of mistletoe and the little peck on the cheek of their landlady had quite possibly saved their day and bought them a bit more time in 221B.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	18. 18

****18/24****

When Mrs Hudson had left - a faint smile still lingering on her face, but nonetheless sternly reminding him that _shooting walls and wearing down the flat definitely had to stop_ - John finished tidying up.

Sherlock had not joined him and Mrs Hudson, which was extraordinary as he was never one to shy away from confrontation. And being confronted by his landlady, however furious, was child's play for him. In fact, Sherlock perked up when attacked, blossomed when challenged.

While John placed the last cup on the shelf, put the milk back into the fridge and arranged everything to his liking, his thoughts wandered back Sherlock. He strained his ears, but no sounds were coming from the bedroom. John frowned, Sherlock really had spent an awful lot of time sulking since yesterday evening.

Alone - in his room.

This was highly unusual indeed - The normal state of affairs would include Sherlock sprawled over the sofa or sulking in his chair, always in need of a more or less captive audience.

Time to check on him, John decided and so he grabbed the plate with the leftover pastry with one hand and a bottle of water with the other and walked through the little hallway towards Sherlock's room.

'Sherlock?' John softly tapped against the door with the bottle of water, but entered without waiting for a reply.

The room was rather gloomy, with the curtains half-drawn and the dim December light not powerful enough to sneak inside and make an impression on the prevailing bleakness. A shudder went over John and balancing the plate and the bottle of water in one hand, he closed the open window to keep the biting cold outside.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, his back leaning against the bedhead, the long legs stretched out, his feet bare, occasionally rubbing them together to coax some warmth back into his cold skin. Sherlock's eyes were glued to the mobile phone in his hands, the long and deft fingers flying over the keypad. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and he had added three nicotine patches to his right lower arm. John raised an admonishing eyebrow, but chose to ignore Sherlock's blatant disregard of his own health for the time being.

'I've brought you something to eat and some water,' John motioned to the food on the plate and the bottle. Sherlock did not look up and only grunted non-committally, but John decided to take this meagre utterance as a sign of encouragment.

'Oh, great. I just leave that on your nighttable, then. Shall I? Yes, good.'

John took the liberty to sit down on the bed next to Sherlock which earned him another grunt and a short annoyed glance.

'What are you doing, Sherlock?'

'Research.'

'What kind?'

'Possible outlets for tension caused by boredom.'

'Really?'

'Yes!' An impatient click of the tongue and exasperated eye-rolling told John that, should he feel inclined to continue this conversation, Sherlock's next answers would very likely be just as monosyllabic.

'Right - Good.'

John's tongue darted out nervously and while waiting he ghosted his fingers over the soft fabric of the dark green duvet. Surprisingly Sherlock let the phone sink down into his lap and fixed his eyes on his friend.

'I'm puzzled, John! By what you told me, by what Lestrade said! And I am still not entirely sure what you were talking about yesterday.' Sherlock leaned forward, coming closer, surprising John just that little bit more. 'This outlet, the different way of releasing tension. What did you mean?'

'You know, you can be incredibly daft sometimes, Sherlock.'

'I am most certainly not.'

'Yes, you are. Can't you put two and two together? Did you not listen to Lestrade? Do you not know ...' John paused a second and cleared his throat. 'I am surprised that your brilliant brain does not click, does not connect the dots ...'

'You mean?'

'Of course.'

Sherlock slumped back against the bedhead and absent-mindedly started chewing his lower lip. John, who knew him like no other, could have sworn that the brilliant Sherlock Holmes did not have the faintest idea what to say.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	19. 19

****19/24****

The silence between them lengthened, deepened without being dark or unpleasant at all. In awe John watched Sherlock sink deeper and deeper into his thoughts. The hand holding the mobile became completely still in his lap, his eyes, extraordinarily alert at first, were slowly growing unfocused, not taking part anymore, not taking in his surroundings, but concentrating on something within himself. Defying the outward stillness something electrifying was surrounding Sherlock, something which was rather disquieting, but in a pleasant, exciting way.

What a fascinating sight, John thought and relaxed. He settled comfortably on the bed, patiently waiting for Sherlock to come back to this room, to them, to him. And without thinking he lifted his right hand and placed it on Sherlock's thigh, a warm and pleasant weight, a reminder, meant to keep him close, meant to calm him, meant to coax his friend back eventually.

Sherlock did not react to John's touch, but it was as if the weight on his leg anchored him and calmed him down. The atmosphere which had been agitated and electric seemed to become quieter, seemed to find a centre. And the silence lingered, soft, tender and envelopping them both.

When Sherlock moved again after ten, maybe fifteen minues it was startling amidst all this stillness. A small movement only, a shudder going through his slender frame.

'Oh ...' Sherlock exclaimed, his lips forming a perfect round shape. 'Oh!' he repeated, his eyes lighting up and focusing with all their splendour on John. Alert now, and brilliant.

Leaning forward as if wanting to get up and move at once, Sherlock hesitated when his gaze dropped to John's hand on his thigh. A slight smile crept across Sherlock's face and he turned sideways and dropped his mobile rather carelessly onto the wooden nighttable, close to the forgotten plate of pastries.

John watched his every movement, his dark blue eyes inevitably drawn to the pale skin, all his senses alert and over-sensitive and suddenly it seemed to John as if time had stopped, and when Sherlock turned back to him it was as in slow motion.

John held his breath and followed Sherlock's fingers with his eyes, watching them move along his own thigh, crawling infinitely slowly towards John's hand. It was the most sensuous, most intense, most erotic movement he had ever seen. He gulped drily, unable to look away from those long and slender digits. And when after ten, twenty slow seconds their hands eventually touched, it was like a power surge, causing time to return to its normal busy pace with a jolt.

John closed his eyes for a second only to open them again quickly and stare at Sherlock's pale hand covering his fingers. He was relishing the touch, so new, yet so familiar. It proved very hard, but eventually he tore his gaze away from their touching hands and looked up.

'Show me,' Sherlock whispered.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	20. 20

**Here we go :)**

* * *

****20/24****

John searched Sherlock's face, convinced to find sarcasm, irony, pretence, but all he saw was interest, openness and a tad insecurity. A slight flush was tinting his pale face, painting a soft, pearly hue onto his cheekbones, and it was sweet and true and so John nodded.

He lifted his hand, and let his index finger trace the rosy shade on Sherlock's face, carefully caressing along the high cheekbone, down to the corner of his lips, resting there. A short respite before daring to ghost his finger over this impossibly pronounced Cupid's bow - always so enticing, inviting, perpetually asking to be gently touched in its outrageous beauty.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and then he closed his eyes, obviously basking in the tender touch, but John felt insecurity swamp him and pool in his stomach.

_Jesus! What are we doing? Is this wrong? It's definitely too much, and it's too quick, isn't it? This is bloody madness! What if we're rushing into something we will regret tomorrow?_

John's mind was fairly assaulted by all those disturbing _what-ifs_ and his finger stilled. Sherlock noticed the shift in the atmosphere and opened his eyes. His bright eyes scanned John's face, taking in the doubt and the insecurity and he simply nodded and leaned into his touch, silently asking for more.

John weakly smiled and with a quick shake he cleared his head, chasing the doubts away - _Stop thinking!_ He clambered onto the bed and onto his knees to face Sherlock, who immediately followed his example like the eager student he was.

They became still and merely looked at each other, intently studying every tiny motion on the other man's face.

'All right?' John asked softly.

'Yes.'

Sherlock's voice was lovely, for once devoid of all sarcasm and derision, soft and low and making him appear younger and more human than ever before.

John felt a surge of longing course through his body and he simply leaned in to press his lips on Sherlock's. Quick, still oddly hesitant, and the kiss felt as strange and awkward as only first kisses can. He drew back, undecided, but then kissed him again and again and Sherlock answered his kisses, willing and eager.

The obvious eagerness surprised John, the softness of Sherlock's lips surprised John, and that this _bloody madness_ was actually happening surprised him even more. Despite his bravado when enlightening Sherlock earlier, despite the air of a very experienced lover he had given himself, depite all the past lovers, men and women, he had kissed and loved, this was nerve-wracking, this was new, this was different, and it was _bloody_ amazing.

The longing intensified and overwhelmed John, completely claimed him and soon both his hands cupped Sherlock's face and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, drawing him near and nearer, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his nose. John felt Sherlock's heartbeat, fast and steady and Sherlock felt John's, strong and reassuring.

They broke off, the first curiosity satisfied - panting and content for a moment to merely watch the other, so near, so new, so right.

'I feel ...' Sherlock softly said, but gulped down the emotion as was his normal way of coping, but then he tried again. 'I feel safe.'

John smiled, 'That's good, that's ... very good.'

John's thumbs caressed Sherlock's smooth skin, and then his fingers slowly moved to the curls in the nape of his neck, relishing the softness there, the warmth of hair and skin. His fingers curled around his neck and exerted just the right pressure to bring their faces, their lips together again. Kissing, biting, testing, teasing, and slowly growing more familiar.

Again, snippets of what John had told Sherlock about kisses an hour ago resurfaced and made him smile, realising that this was indeed only a prelude of what was to come.

And when it was Sherlock who was the one claiming John's lips for more - far more, always more - moving swiftly from teasing and gentle to demanding and heated, John was more than willing to follow his lead.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	21. 21

****21/24****

The intensity was overwhelming, all-consuming, incomparable to anything Sherlock had ever felt before. Lust and desire were washing over him like tidal waves, mounting with every touch, waiting to crest. He moaned and felt self-control leaving him kiss by kiss, and he did not mind in the slightest.

Pressing one's mouth onto somebody else's mouth was something Sherlock had never liked, sex a chore he had only endured occasionally and mostly when there was something to gain for him. Sex used as a means to exercise control and dominance, but never an activity to enjoy, and consequently any endeavour in that field had been gladly abandoned in favour of a cerebral existence years ago.

Until John, that was.

Until now, to be precise, as these moments of intense passion and lust showed Sherlock what it was like to lose oneself in another person. Completely and utterly and voluntarily. Without hidden agenda. And it was obvious that John felt the same. Sherlock's heart clenched when he realised the significance of this moment. And with every second that passed, with every kiss they shared - actually shared - puzzle piece for puzzle piece fell into place, making it blatantly obvious that John was the answer.

Sherlock sighed, from the bottom of his heart it seemed, relieved, feeling strangely light-headed. This revelation made him want John even more and he kissed him with renewed vigour, kissed him with the hunger of someone in the priceless possession of an answer to everything.

His mind refused to go blank, though, some stubborn thoughts still maddeningly cursing through his buzzing brain, when for _once_ all he wanted was to feel and not to think.

Willing his mind to stop rotating and to focus on John instead, Sherlock broke off their kiss to catch his breath. He kept his eyes closed and slowly breathed in and out, feeling John's closeness like a calm presence in front of him, and when he opened his eyes again it was to a new life, it seemed.

_God! What a revelation!_

Surprising enough to shock Sherlock, but ever so amusing at the same time, he found. Another thing occured to him then and he chuckled, his lips pleasantly tingling John's cheek.

'What is it?' John demanded, the smile on Sherlock's face warming his heart.

'You were right, John.'

'That must be a first,' John drily said and nipped at Sherlock's lips, so tantalisingly close and all his now.

'Well, we both know that you are not the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are indeed unbeatable.'

'Oi! Watch it, you insufferable git!'

Sherlock chuckled again, happy that he could fluster John so easily, and then he clarified.

'You _were_ right. This could indeed serve as an alternative outlet for some of my pent up energy.'

'And we're only kissing,' John teased.

'True,' Sherlock conceded and the way he said it, was unbearably sexy and John involuntarily moaned and kissed him again.

In their desire to be near each other they were swaying on the mattress, precariously balancing on the edge of the bed, and John felt something needed to be done. Gently pressing his hands against Sherlock's bony shoulders, he pushed him backwards and down onto the bed, following him so that he lay on top, their chests flush against each other.

And as if Sherlock had been waiting for this opportunity he wrapped his arms around John's waist and his long legs around his legs, claiming him in such a natural manner as if everything happening to them was not new and exciting, but an old routine. They were a perfect fit.

'And we're only kissing,' Sherlock repeated quietly, the slow movement of his hips against John's as much a statement as it was an invitation.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	22. 22

****22/24****

John felt trapped, held in place by those long muscular limbs in the most arousing way. Immobilised by mad, idiotic, ignorant, beautiful Sherlock, his face flushed, his lips an almost obscene dark red and a faint sheen of sweat on his brow which made his skin glimmer. A shudder went over John, as the squirming man underneath him kindled a passion which was unrivalled by any lover he had had before. With a soft moan he bent down to kiss those soft eyelids, his nose, his lips.

'_Jesus_, Sherlock - you are beautiful,' John muttered between kisses. But the insecurity he had felt earlier returned and he tensed.

_Maybe Sherlock does not like to be complimented? No, I'm sure this is a definite turnoff for him. Jesus - I have no bloody idea what he likes, where he likes to be kissed and caressed, where he draws a line or ... maybe he has some kind of kink that I'll feel uncomfortable with? Maybe he isn't experienced ..._

'Stop thinking, John. It's annoying.' Sherlock firmly said and increased the pressure of his thighs on John's. 'I'm not uncomfortable and I have in fact engaged in sexual acts before.'

Sherlock smiled at John to soften the rather harsh tone and John's vision blurred for a moment. He felt light-headed because this annoying mixture of conflicting emotions was coursing through him - Pride and fear, courage and smugness - John closed his eyes and exhaled - _Bloody bugger them all_, he thought.

He opened his eyes and smiled back at Sherlock, much calmer now, accepting that there probably was no reason to worry, and the unmistakable bulge pressing against John's own arousal made it blatantly clear that Sherlock himself was indeed not worrying at all.

'Right ...' John whispered, determined to concentrate on the more important things from now on. They resumed kissing, with even more urgency and passion, and they started to move with a fierce determination, pressing their arousals together, creating delicious friction. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting in the most enticing way, and John's heart missed a beat.

It was hot, unbearably hot all of a sudden, and grinning from ear to ear John pushed himself up on his knees causing Sherlock to loosen his hold on him. Quickly he shrugged out of his jumper and shirt and Sherlock's hands immediately flew to the bare skin, boldly tracing the muscles on John's stomach, before his fingers moved up to his strong and well-formed shoulders. Delicately he ran a thumb over the scar that had brought John back home from Afghanistan and eventually into Sherlock's life - He made a mental note to show the star-shaped scar reverence later.

John sat back, careful not to transfer his full weight onto Sherlock's legs, enjoying the soft hands caressing his skin, the light touch paying attention to him and only him. He wanted to reciprocate and so he opened Sherlock's shirt buttons, one by one, unveiling pale and perfect skin. He helped Sherlock shrug out of the shirt, but let it slide only halfway down his shoulders. A half-naked Sherlock, all his, was very arousing.

But Sherlock was growing restless and motioned John to lift his hips a bit, so that he could open his own trousers, before he did the same with John's jeans. John bent down to kiss him, to explore the texture and taste of his skin and then he snaked his hand between them.

His first stroke made Sherlock arch his back, bucking into his hand. So John went slower, with soft and exploring strokes, not very pronounced at first, but enough for now. He was certain they would soon find a rhythm to push them both over the edge.

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	23. 23

****23/24****

'Hang on, Sherlock. Let me do that for you.'

John stood on tiptoes and leaned close to kiss a few pastry crumbs away which were clinging to the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

'Hmm,' Sherlock hummed and smiled, before biting into his second cinnamon roll.

There were standing next to each other in the kitchen, leaning against the sink. Sherlock was wolfing down the leftover pastries and John was nursing a cup of strong milky tea. He was exhilerated, happy, tired, satisfied and more than a bit surprised at this turn of events.

With a smirk he glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be fairly glowing from within. It was not so much that his skin was rosy and warm, but that the air of boredom and annoyance which surrounded him more often than not like a dull fog was gone. Replaced by a bright and glowing happiness.

John turned away and smiled into his cup. Silence filled the flat, only interspersed by the faint humming noise Sherlock made while eating something he liked, a rare enough occasion, and John's soft slurping of the hot tea.

'Whohoo! Are you decent, boys?'

The familiar phrase, which seemed to have become MrsHudson's war cry ever since she had caught Sherlock in nothing but his pale skin one morning, rang out from the ground floor, not unpleasantly cutting through the silence.

'Always, Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock's voice boomed, and he was using the exact same words John had used to answer their landlady two hours earlier. Hearing his own words repeated in Sherlock's velvety baritone sent shivers down John's spine. Automatically reacting to Mrs Hudson's inquiry he glanced down at his bare legs and realised that he was in fact _not_ entirely decent.

His compact frame was clad in nothing but a white t-shirt and dark blue boxers with large white polka dots, a gift from his sister Harry, and when he glanced at Sherlock, he saw that he was not much better. Granted, he had taken the time to throw on his shirt, as he was quickly cold, but he had not bothered buttoning it. John checked that Sherlock was wearing briefs - _Oh, good,_ he thought and smiled, rather sheepishly - and then he realised with startling clarity that their unusual array would tell Mrs Hudson all there was to know.

'Sherlock, we really need to have a talk about your...' Mrs Hudson entered the kitchen, her voice still bearing a trace of anger, but she fell silent as soon as she saw the two of them. She gasped and both her hands flew to her face, covering her mouth. Martha Hudson had always been a very quick-witted lady indeed, and of course she grasped the changed dynamic between the former flatmates at once.

With a teary smile she hastened over to them. For a second she just watched the two men and then gently caressed Sherlock's face before she patted John's arm in a very motherly fashion. They both smiled at her.

'Boys! My dears! Oh ... that was ... about time. I'm glad, so very glad ... and I'm very happy for you.'

Her voice was muffled by teary emotions and John could actually feel Sherlock grinning next to him.

'I am happy too, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said warmly, surprising all of them with this public declaration of the emotional kind and John looked at him, amazed.

'Are you?' he could not help but ask, suddenly indifferent to their landlady standing right in front of them.

Sherlock turned to John, his bright eyes alert and entirely focusing on him.

'Of _course_ I am.'

_**To be continued tomorrow...**_


	24. 24

****24/24****

Mrs Hudson had left them to it with a rather saucy wink - _I'm sure you want to be alone now, boys_ - but not before they had agreed on a cup of tea accompanied by homemade mince pies and shortbread in their landlady's kitchen later that afternoon - _We really need to talk about the damage to my wall, Sherlock!_ - and now, ten minutes later, Sherlock and John were still standing next to each other in the kitchen.

After a while Sherlock broke the companiable silence and cleared his throat. John glanced at him then and saw that his eyes were slowly travelling around their kitchen, their flat - their home - taking in the way it had changed since breakfast. Eventually Sherlock leaned forward to place the empty plate he had been holding all the time on the kitchen table.

'You really could not refrain from putting up that weed, could you?'

'I told you I would.'

'You did indeed.'

Sherlock pushed himself off from the sink and padded barefoot into the living room, passing the prettily tied twigs of mistletoe without paying them any heed. John's eyes followed the smooth and elegant movements of his long bare legs and the twitching round and firm buttocks in the black briefs, more than content to finally be allowed to ogle him so unashamedly. When Sherlock was out of sight he hurriedly followed him into the living room.

Sherlock was glancing at the strings of fairylight which seemed to be everywhere, his eyebrows raised mockingly and he actually snorted when the rakishly decorated moose registered. John held his breath when Sherlock stopped in front of the wall adorned by the yellow smiley, now covered with the splendid bunch of mistletoe and the blinking fairy lights. John could see from the way Sherlock's shoulders tensed and heaved that he was quietly laughing.

'I really messed that up, didn't I?'

'Sorry?'

John was sure he had misheard and frowned. Sherlock Holmes admitting that he _messed up_, that he was wrong? That must be another first among all the firsts of the last hours.

'Well, it won't happen again.' Sherlock reacted to John's unspoken thoughts.

_He can read my thoughts even though he is not even looking at me_ - John thought - _That's bloody_ _great_!

'_And_ I'd be grateful if this little confession stayed within these four walls, John,' Sherlock continued. 'No need for Lestrade to know!'

'I never ...' John protested, but Sherlock interrupted him. 'Yes, you do. He's your confidant after all. I can't blame you, I guess I just did not pay you enough attention. Won't happen again either.'

'Right - Good.' John nodded. 'About that smiley...' he started and took another step forward, just when Sherlock turned around and stopped him.

'No, stay exactly where you are!'

'What? Why on earth should I do that?'

Sherlock did not answer, but pointed to something above John's head. He quickly closed the gap between them and gently touched John's shoulders.

'I believe it is my right to ask for a kiss when I catch you underneath this ... _plant.' _

'It might be,' John said, trying hard not to grin. 'It's just that you told me not too long ago that all this mumbo jumbo was sentimental nonsense nobody really cared for!'

'Did I?' Sherlock knitted his brow, pretending to think hard and long. 'You must be mistaken, John. I can't remember having said anything like that in the past twenty-four hours!'Sherlock smirked and not waiting for a further reply he bent down to claim John's lips in a tender Christmas kiss.

When they broke off, he cupped John's face in his warm hands and fixed his gaze on him. His eyes were bright and his gaze intense and serious, and John nodded.

_Yes_ - to whatever sentiment was dancing through this brilliant brain - _Yes_!

Sherlock smiled in silent understanding and then kissed him again.

'Merry Christmas, my John.'

*****The End*****

* * *

**A/N**

Merry Christmas indeed, my dears!

Thank you so much for reading. This story helped me to overcome my writer's block as it was a great incentive to fill this Advent Calendar for you. I know, it's nothing special, but it's fluffy and Johnlocky and it was fun to write.

A big thank you to all of you who read and commented, alerted or favourited this story. And a very special _**thank you**_ to ...

**WitchRavenFox, MapleLeafCameo, mattsloved1, mervoparkite, Azile Signer, FoxyLady40, VersperL2, Beemoh, Sheepdog20, Sophie Claire, Wiznerd the Eagle, WiselyChosen, Serenityofthematrix, amandacouch161, SavedBySwift ... **

Please forgive me if I left out anybody :)

See you soon,

JJ


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